


Interference

by rei_c



Series: Pan of the Preserve [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demigod Stiles Stilinski, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Plans For The Future, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-12 23:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Peter takes Stiles' wrist, turns it enough to bare the pale underside to his teeth, and says, "Yes? Or no?""Aw, shit," Stiles says. "Aunt 'Rina said this was gonna happen but I didn't -- when Derek didn't say anything -- andScott, but, oh, fuck, he's new, isn't he, of course he wouldn't -- and we've been friends for ever so he  -- but I thought Derek -- but of courseyoudo."





	Interference

**Author's Note:**

> I have three-thousand words of a five-year-old Stiles in Cajun Louisiana for backstory and I love this universe so much but everything's so disconnected and this isn't even what I'm meant to be working on but whatever, here, have a thing, I guess?

Peter takes Stiles' wrist, turns it enough to bare the pale underside to his teeth, and says, "Yes? Or no?" 

"Aw, shit," Stiles says. "Aunt 'Rina said this was gonna happen but I didn't -- when Derek didn't say anything -- and _Scott_ , but, oh, fuck, he's new, isn't he, of course he wouldn't -- and we've been friends for ever so he -- but I thought Derek -- but of course _you_ do." 

Peter narrows his eyes. "Stiles," he says. "What are -- I asked you a question. Do you want the bite?"

Stiles rips his hand out of Peter's grasp. He tries to, anyway. Peter's got a firm hold of him, nostrils flaring wide as he tries to figure out what's going on via Stiles' scent. Stiles tugs again; Peter growls. "How about we table the question for now," Stiles says. "I have to -- please don't do anything stupid, Peter. I'm getting the feeling that if you follow through with what you've got planned, it's not going to end well for you." 

"Is that a threat?" Peter asks. 

"More of a desperate plea for patience," Stiles admits. "Look, I can't tell you -- not until I talk to 'Rina, anyway, but -- here, just scent me, okay?" 

Peter frowns, says, "I already have, Stiles. That night in the --" and stops, immediately, as Stiles releases the block he has on his _true_ scent. 

It's not a significant change, really, but the release of pressure has Stiles letting out a grateful sigh. With the block gone, Stiles knows his scent intensifies from the shallowest of creeks into the deepest of oceans, an overflow of oak trees and lemon groves and petrichor-scented young grass, a hint of cypress, dried palm fronds, magnolia blooms, and honey. It's enough to have Peter dropping Stiles' arm and taking three steps back, sneezing at the sudden rush of smells. His eyes water; he wipes them clear, looks up at Stiles and says, "Your eyes." 

They're not beta gold but they're close, the normal brandy shade lit up from within, an underlying aureate gleam the colour of turmeric and sunburnt dandelions. Stiles has never been a big fan of the way they look, glowing with his magic, but judging from the way Peter's eyes dilate, he's maybe being too harsh on himself. 

"Ah. Right," Stiles says. "With the -- yeah, sorry, should've warned you. Will you -- is that enough to get you to stop? For now, anyway?" 

Peter opens the Jeep door, gestures for Stiles to get in, and says, "I'm going with you." 

"Figured," Stiles says. 

\--

Thank god his dad's working tonight; Stiles has no idea how he'd even begin to start explaining why Peter Hale is following him inside, one hand pressed possessively to the small of Stiles' back. Stiles heads straight for the kitchen and the phone, absently takes out two bottles of water from the fridge and hands one over to Peter. He gets the phone, presses speed dial 7, turns it on speaker and sets the handset on the counter. It rings once, twice, three times, then a woman's voice says, "Pan-ling? What's wrong? I thought you'd still be at the dance; did something happen?" 

"Hi, Aunt 'Rina," Stiles says. He picks at the label on the bottle, keeps his eyes on the phone, doesn't look at Peter. "Um. I have a -- so remember when we found out that instead of -- that I've got -- I've sort of --." 

"There's a wolf there with you right now, isn't there," she guesses. "Stiles, I _told_ you to --"

Stiles cuts off his aunt, wincing at the rudeness and in anticipation of his punishment even as he says, "It's a Hale alpha, Aunt 'Rina. I've been careful, I _swear_ , it's just that there's been -- um. There's been a lot going on? Remember, I told you about Derek and Laura coming back, and Laura dying, Scott being bitten? Well, Derek's still lurking around -- actually, he's always here, it's weird, he has this thing about slamming me into -- anyway, the nemeton told me I have almost a year until I enter full-blown ripening but Peter tracked me down -- Peter Hale, Derek's uncle? Not so much in a coma, it seems; _oncle_ Cam was right about that -- and offered me a mating bite and I don't think he really even knows he did because he's looking at me now and he seems a little shocked but he scented me and _sneezed_ and it knocked him out of --" 

This time his aunt cuts Stiles off, says, "Breathe, Pan-ling. Deep breaths; in, out, there you go, good boy. Now. The alpha, Peter, he's there with you?" 

"I am," Peter says. "With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" 

"My name is Katerina," she says, "and Stiles is one of mine. What do you know of forest deities?" 

Stiles' eyes go wide; he stares at Peter as Peter stares back. "I was consul and executioner for my sister's pack, when she was alpha," Peter says. His voice sounds a little weaker, a little unsteady. "Why?"

Katerina lets out a deep breath. "I'm the matriarch bacchant of our family," she says, as Stiles covers his eyes with his hands, groans a little, "and Stiles is our youngest Pan. He's bonded to the nemeton in your family's preserve and has also been claimed by the greater territory. Did you intend to offer my nephew a mating bite, alpha?" 

Peeking through his fingers, Stiles sees as Peter's eyes move from the phone to Stiles' hands, his wrists, the forearms on display now that Stiles has rolled up his shirt sleeves. "No," Peter says. "But I would offer again." 

Stiles' heart skips a beat. He's not -- he's not unflattered by Peter's interest, but he knows he's young and useful and, according to what Cam's said over the years, reeks of power without even being conscious of it. If Peter's been stalking him and Scott the way Stiles thinks, then Peter knows he's smart and a little morally ambiguous and fiercely protective, and Peter's attractive, sure, but Stiles hasn't reached his sexual maturity yet and there's a huge age difference, and Peter's recent behaviour is more indicative of insanity than a well-thought-out plan of vengeance but Pans understand something of madness and it's a good look on Peter, it really is, and oh god, his dad's going to kill him because he's seriously looking at Peter the way Peter is seriously looking at him. 

They're both _considering_ it. 

"Camille will come," Katerina says. "If you want him to come, he'll come, Stiles." 

Peter gives Stiles a raised eyebrow; Stiles says, weakly, "A friend of mine; pseudo-uncle, really. Beta. More of a traditional _loup-garou_ than werewolf, but -- he, um, it's kind of a --" 

"Stiles is fine," Peter says. "We don't need any wolves in our territory that aren't pack. We have enough of those." 

"We?" Stiles echoes. "Our territory?" 

Katerina scoffs, says, "He's the alpha and you're the nemeton's bonded, Stiles. The preserve grew fennel for you and guided your hands as you crafted your _thyrsus_. It's just as much your territory as it is his and he's right to recognise it as such. Maybe he's not such an idiot as most wolves." 

Stiles' jaw drops. It's not that his aunt hates wolves, just that she prefers foxes, as most of their family does; maenads are born clutching fox-pelts, after all. Stiles is an anomaly, being male in a family predominantly filled with women, and doubly so being born with lupine pack instincts -- an anomaly but also very, very valuable in the right hands. 

Hands like Peter Hale's hands. Which are -- nice. 

"What vow would you want me to swear, bacchant?" Peter asks. "That your baby Pan will be safe here, that he won't be forced to enter into any bonds he doesn't also want, that he'll have the chance to grow along with his tree?" 

"Swear it on the moon," Katerina says. Stiles blinks. He'd barely recovered from his aunt's confession but he's thrown back into shock. No wolf swears on the moon, not lightly; she's sacred to them and has been known to burn wolves who break their oaths to her with moonfire, down to cinders and opals. 

Peter swallows. He lets his eyes roam over Stiles' face, fix first on his mouth, then, longer, on his eyes. Peter's eyes flash red; Stiles' eyes are still the gleaming golden colour of his magic being given free reign. 

"I swear, to the lady Selene," Peter says, and Stiles' hands shake even as Peter's voice is even, his words measured, "that I shall protect the freedom and integrity of the bonded belonging to the Hale territory's nemeton, until such a time as he releases me from this oath." 

As soon as Peter's done speaking, Stiles feels a -- it's like a hook, inside, or a tether, tying him to Peter. It's not the same as a bond, doesn't feel like a two-way connection, and Stiles can't _touch_ it, but he feels Peter at the other end of the rope, can tell, somehow, that it's more all-encompassing to him than it is to Stiles, that Stiles is very clearly the recipient of something powerful, that he has all the power, that he could make the wolf on the other end of the tether do _anything_.

"Oh, fuck," Stiles says, quietly, shaken deep inside. "Peter, what the hell did you do." 

"Language, child," Katerina says. "Now go and talk. I've got to call Vesna and Camille." 

Stiles moans in distress. Across the counter, Peter makes an aborted movement, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring. "Please don't tell Aunt Vesna," Stiles says. "I'll never live it down. It's not like I was going around flaring my scent; it's not my fault!" 

"It's been centuries since an unripened Pan in our family was strong enough to entrance an alpha," Katerina says. "Not to mention bonding a nemeton at _four_ , or being claimed by a territory at seven, or forging a _thyrsus_ before becoming a teenager." 

"Don't remind me," Stiles says. "It's not like I asked for this, Aunt 'Rina. And you know what Aunt Vesna's like; if she could leave her grove, she'd be knocking at the door tomorrow. There's going to be video chats and phone calls and she's going to _write letters_ , and somehow she'll find a way to make my life even more miserable than it already is. Did I tell you that Scott's refusing the call of his alpha? That there have been wolves without packs trampling 'round my forest? And _hunters_? Please, just -- just give it a week before you tell Aunt Vesna, _please_." 

Katerina laughs, says, "Not a chance, Pan-ling," and ends the call. 

Stiles lets out a muttered curse and bangs his head against the counter. Or, rather, he tries, but his forehead meets a hand instead of the formica. He could pick his head up, try the wall or table or anywhere where Peter isn't, but Peter's warm and the tether between them feels safe, and Stiles is suddenly and completely bone-deep exhausted. 

"I'll run interference for you," Peter says, adding, "if you want." 

Stiles tilts his head so that his cheek's resting in Peter's palm, the angle a little painful on his back as he looks up sideways at Peter. "I'll release you from your vow," Stiles offers. "It can't be -- I can feel that it's not comfortable for you. And 'Rina kind of railroaded you into that; the wording was good, very careful, but swearing to the moon is serious shit and I don't want you to -- I mean, freedom and integrity is pretty broad; you could accidentally get caught up in that." 

Peter trails his fingers over Stiles' jawline before he moves his palm out from under Stiles. Stiles stands there, frozen, as Peter looks his fill, touches Stiles' cheek, the curve of his neck, runs his thumb down the line of Stiles' nose. "You're worth the risk," Peter says. "And having the bond means I have a year to make you want me the way I want you." 

One part of Stiles' heart sinks at the same time another goes absolutely crazy. "You only -- it's not me, really," Stiles says, standing up straight, looking anywhere but at Peter. "It's the way I smell, and what I am, and that I'm bonded to your territory, and that I'd come with _Scott_ , who you want for your pack, and probably Derek as well, and that I'm useful. You don't really want _me_." 

"Stiles," Peter says. "I'm not going to try and convince you otherwise. I swore to protect your freedom and integrity, which includes the freedom to believe what you want. But give me a year. Give me until you ripen. If you still believe I don't want you for _you_ by then, you can release me from my vow and we'll go our separate ways." 

The tether thrums. Stiles looks at Peter, studies him, feels a flash-burst of anger hit the back of his mind as the light footsteps of hunters start to circle around the old Hale house. 

"Let me feed Kate Argent to the nemeton," Stiles says. "And I'll give you a chance. We'll handfast over her blood: a year and a day." 

"Done," Peter says, no hesitation. Peter holds out his hand; Stiles takes it, gets chills down his spine at the way Peter's skin feels in his. "But isn't handfasting marriage?"

Stiles stares, says, "You agreed to something you thought was marriage? Just like that?"

Peter shrugs one shoulder. "Every family's definition is different," Peter admits, "but even marriage isn't as permanent as a mating bite. My chances of winning you are better if we're bound, exponentially better if we're monogamous."

There's no way to keep a grin off his face so Stiles doesn't even try. "You're insane," he says. "Like, I thought you were crazy before but you are fucking _nuts_." 

"You seem to like it," Peter replies. "Though I'd expect nothing less from a descendent of Dionysus. Now. About Kate Argent."

"I know where she is," Stiles says, and shudders as _bakkheia_ starts to overtake him, the knowledge of a waiting sacrifice starting to push out every other thought from his mind. He can smell his own scent start to fade under the overwhelming power of a Pan's madness, sees as Peter breathes in and the red in his eyes seems to shine just that little bit brighter. "Where she's going to be. Will you wait for me at the nemeton?" 

"I could help you get her there," Peter offers. 

Stiles shakes his head, feels a crown of ivy start blooming into being. He reaches up, tilts it to fit better, scratches at the way it itches his skin. "Not safe," he says, and the words he wants to say die, strangled by the blood in his teeth, as he smiles. "Meet me. I -- Peter, I'm --," he starts to say, stops when the ability to use language finally deserts him. 

"Beautiful," Peter says. "You're beautiful." 

The Pan bares his teeth, starts to laugh, and the noise follows him as he leaves to hunt his sacrifice.


End file.
